


The Conceited Crusader

by ErinPtah



Category: Fake News FPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Community: hc_bingo, Demon Summoning, M/M, Poltergeists, Pre-Slash, Secret Identity, force fields
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen's a smug, merchandise-driven superhero with very few actual powers. Jon's a plucky new reporter at the local paper. They live in a city terrorized by villains, including militant homosexual activists, Satanic baby-killing feminists, and the evil Obama that only Republicans can see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Conceited Crusader

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a collection of fics in the same AU. If more ever come around, I'll post them as a sequel.

The muggers are backed up against the dumpster, held in place by a field that shimmers with soap-bubble opalescence and doubles as an umbrella against the grey drizzle. One has a gun, but he doesn't fire: this city's criminals know when not to waste bullets.

Jon is stammering a rough sort of thanks when the costumed hero hugs him. Another field appears around them, simple and spherical with water drumming on the top and sloshing around Jon's polished loafers; he stumbles as the curved surface lifts below him and falls against the man's chest. Brick, broken glass, and a wrought-iron fire escape whoosh past on the far side of the feathery cape (or is it just a pair of under-arm attachments, flying-squirrel style? He didn't get a good enough look to tell).

They're airborne.

"Can I drop you somewhere?" asks the superhero, as they clear the rooftops. "Drop in the figurative sense, not the literal one! My fields are much too stable for that. In spite of any rumors you've heard to the contrary."

"Uh, I'm thinking I should just go home," says Jon, wrapping his arms around the hero's shoulders just in case. They're not as broad as he expected...although he has the tact not to say so out loud. Not all superheros can be weightlifters or gifted with divine muscles, right? And he's still taller than Jon, not that that's saying much. "I was looking for a good deli, but after almost being mugged and then getting picked up by a cape, I've had about enough adventure for one night."

"'Cape' is such a derogatory term," sniffs the hero. "We prefer costume-Americans. Or, better yet, just our names." He frowns (the cowl has opaque lenses over his eyes; a disapproving scowl is the only hint of expression he wears). "You have _heard_ of me, right?"

Jon stalls by naming the intersection closest to his house, and they start rolling through the air eight or ten stories above the cars, turning a corner when the road does like a pinball bouncing through a machine. "I just got into town yesterday," he adds, trying to sound deferential. "Or early this morning, depending on how you count it. I'm still on L.A. time, and work starts tomorrow, and I haven't really gotten a chance to, um, research the local costume-American scene."

"You haven't? Then, sir, this is your lucky day." They take a hard left (Jon's apartment is to the right), cutting through the rain as it picks up. Water streams down the sides of the force field. It's like barreling down the highway in a car that's all window. "Actor?"

"What? No, sorry, writer." Snapped up by the _Daily_ , not that Jon wants to say so out loud; the editorial voice has a thing against costumed crimefighting. He settles for "The newspaper kind, not the novel kind."

"Oh! So you're one of those liberal media elites," says the hero, dripping with disdain. "Well, if anyone can save you from that too, I'm just the hero to do it. Behold!"

He flings out an arm, as best he can manage with Jon hanging on to him. They've come to a stop in front of a tall sand-colored building, a full-color advertisement running down its side broken only by tiny squares for the windows: Jon's rescuer, striking a heroic pose. Huge serif letters form the caption _The Eagle: It's who Lincoln would have been rescued by._

"Very impressive," says Jon, and almost means it. He's still intensely grateful to have his wallet and no bullet holes in him, after all.

The Eagle smirks. "I know."

"I promise to come back and admire it later, when the sun is out," Jon adds.

"Good man." The Eagle's arm hooks around his waist, and they start whooshing back up the street. "Take some of that respect to your newspaper job, you could be a real Difference Maker. Almost as much as I am."


	2. It's A Bird! It's A Plane! It's...A Chair!

When his first day at the office finally arrives, Jon tries to ply his fellow reporters for the scoop on the Eagle without being too obvious about it.

Turns out everyone has an opinion, and most are only too happy to share. A fair few people think he's done good, in spite of having an ego roughly the size of Texas. They tip Jon off not to say anything in that vein around Kilborn; the editor is also the driving force behind the _Central City Daily_ 's anti-cape stand. Other staffers see things Kilborn's way, but the only one who matches him for viciousness is a shouty cub reporter, who insists to anyone who will listen that costumed heroes make a mockery of law and order. Since anything said within earshot of him is bound to get back to Kilborn sooner or later, it's best to keep mum around him too.

Jon almost wants to argue with both of them. He's bound to run into the Eagle again (frankly, obnoxious though the guy was, he's almost looking forward to it), and he wants to be able to hold his head high when that happens.

On the other hand, he really needs this job.

He'll just have to learn to keep his head down, get his stories in on time, and avoid talking to Colbert entirely.

 

†

 

Naturally, Jon gets assigned to cover the fundraiser along with Colbert. Because the universe hates him, obviously.

He schmoozes with the various wealthy VIPs and campaign staffers, picking up soundbites. There have been a couple of particularly underhanded ads slung around in this gubernatorial campaign, and nobody wants to take responsibility for them. Instead he keeps getting deflected with arguments about who's responsible for the increase in violence in downtown Central.

"I don't see the problem," says Colbert, when Jon runs into him over the deviled egg platter. "They're being very clear. The current governor's policies are bad. The challenger is not the current governor. Ergo, the challenger's policies are good. Why can't you just transcribe that without being so picky about it?"

"Maybe I think this city deserves a better class of journalist," says Jon.

Colbert shrugs. "Suit yourself," he says, then casts an eye across Jon's oversized light-blue suit with the hemmed pant legs. "On second thought, don't. Leave that to the professionals. Ask around here, I'm sure some of these people can get you a bargain deal at their tailor. If you can restrain yourself from demanding details of their fiscal policy first, that is."

With that, he disappears into the crowd.

 

†

 

All around him people are running, and screaming, and Jon can't for the life of him understand why.

He's been heading toward the epicenter of the commotion, which started at one of the side doors and has been moving toward the podium where the candidate was scheduled to speak. And there's nothing there. As Jon watches, a woman in about fifty strings of pearls topples like she's been hit by a club, but he can't figure out what hit her....

"Watch it!" shouts someone behind him. For a second he thinks it's Colbert, then a force field materializes around him and yanks him toward the chandeliers. He's flattened against the curved surface, his stomach heaving.

He does a quick check. The tape recorder's still on.

"Where do you get the balls to attack these salt-of-the-earth all-American job creators?" continues the Eagle, descending in a force field of his own. One hand is upraised in Jon's direction, while his cowl glares with patriotic solemnity at the empty span of floor Jon was just yanked from. "And that guy?"

Jon would have complained if he weren't so busy trying not to throw up. The rest of the crowd is too busy fleeing for the doors to notice.

"Now that's just mean," the Eagle says, as if responding to something. He lands in a dramatic pose, and starts lowering Jon's protective bubble back toward solid ground. At least this time it's going slowly. "I'm sure once he's gotten a few steady paychecks, he'll start buying clothes that fit."

The bubble settles Jon on the ground between two tables and a mess of toppled chairs. When it disappears, he nearly puts his hand in a plateful of spilled spaghetti bolognaise, and somebody's red wine starts soaking into his right knee. Apparently being soggy is going to be a running theme in these meetings.

"You take that back!" yells the Eagle, and casts a force field around what looks to Jon like empty air.

"Hey!" Jon staggers to his feet and holds out the mic. "Eagle! What's going on? Who are you fighting?"

"Don't you recognize him?" demands the Eagle over his shoulder. "What kind of reporter are you?"

"The kind who can't see invisible people!" snaps Jon. "Come on, give the people a hint. Do you have metahuman vision, or just advanced tech?"

"Telling you anything about my methods would only give the supervillains more ammunition," says the Eagle loftily. Then: "Uh-oh."

While Jon still can't see the attacker, the force field is clear enough. And it's crackling like a socket with a fork stuck in it. The electric arcs radiate out from two central points at about eye level, throwing off sparks, getting wider and brighter with every second.

"Don't think your fancy new electro-glove trick will defeat me, Obama!" shouts the Eagle.

A second later, the field disappears altogether.

"Joke's on you! I can't even _fit_ that many in my — gah!"

The Eagle generates a second field that launches himself into the air, just time to take an invisible electro-punch on the calf.

He settles into a weird aerial attack pattern, coming down and at angles to take a swing at the invisible figure, soaring out of reach to avoid the explosions of sparks. Oh, and yelling. Lots of yelling. "I am too my brother's keeper! Shut up! You don't get any moral high ground when you go around punching these sweet maltreated tycoons and trust beneficiaries! Hey, leave my mother out of this! You...augh!"

He's caught. He dissolved part of the field to get in a good kick, and now he's crouched in the rest of it, hanging above the tables with one leg sticking out the bottom of the bubble. Light crackles around his ankle.

The Eagle screams.

Journalists aren't supposed to get involved. But everyone else who might have helped out here has fled the building. And even if those sirens in the distance are heading their way, Jon doesn't feel like waiting that long.

"Hey! Obama!" he shouts, leaning on the nearest table. "How about that closing Guantanamo, huh?"

There's a minor thud, as of an adult-human-sized figure dropping from a two-foot height. The Eagle pulls his leg back to safety and lies curled up on his side in the curve of his bubble. Under the cowl, his face has taken on an unsettling greyish tint.

"And...the no progress on gun control!" continues Jon, addressing the general direction of the noise. "How many more people have to be massacred in the theater before we do something, huh? And...uh...."

"Not just Obama," croaks the Eagle. "The Obama...only Republicans can see. _Evil_ Obama."

Oh, good. That means Jon doesn't have to keep trying to think of criticisms that make sense. "And why are you sending terrorist drones to carpet-bomb American small businesses?" he yells.

There's a crackle in the air, way over to the left.

Jon fists both hands in the tablecloth and yanks, swiveling until he feels the drag. Soup spoons and designer pepper shakers bounce off of a space in the air; gourmet pasta sauce and caviar splatter over a silhouette. The partial outline of a tall man in a suit stumbles backward, trying to wipe the invasive substances off. (No, he can't.)

That takes care of finding the guy. All Jon has to do now is dodge.

 

†

 

By the time the police show up, they find the evil Obama wrapped in a tablecloth and hanging from the top of one of the room's decorative columns. The Eagle pulled himself together long enough to sneak up behind him while he was chasing Jon, and took off after tying the final knot. Jon hopes he has a nice comfortable nest somewhere to recover in.

"I take it you can't see him?" says the officer debriefing Jon, as a couple of others (some who look like they know what they're doing, others clearly just going through the motions) confiscate Evil Obama's electro-gloves and bundle him into the back of a police van.

"What, because I'm in news I have to be a Democrat? Come on."

"No, because he's spent the past ten minutes swearing eternal vengeance on you and all your descendants."

"Oh," says Jon.

A microphone is suddenly thrust between the two of them, and Jon nearly gets elbowed in the face as Stephen Colbert aims it at the policewoman. "Officer, how quickly do you think this incident will be co-opted by liberal handwringers wanting to suppress our Second Amendment rights to gloves that electrocute people?"

 

†

 

A folded newspaper slaps down on Jon's desk, making him jump. "Think you're a hero now, huh? Practically making yourself out to be the Eagle's new sidekick! Why don't you just cut to the chase and slap on some spandex?"

Jon glances at the article: his byline, two neat columns of print, a huge full-color photo. Of course, to Jon's eyes it's a photo of nothing, and he wonders how that works, whether people like Stephen can see different levels of ink in that place on the page. "I got mentioned in like two sentences," he points out. "You could have been in there too if you hadn't run away when all the action started."

"I have a very sensitive stomach!" insists Stephen. "It forces me to make discreet exits at random and not at all suspicious times! Stop changing the subject away from how you would look in a domino mask and tights!"

"Excuse me," says Jon abruptly, getting to his feet. "I think I hear Kilborn calling me."

He flees to the roof, trying to estimate how long it'll take for Stephen to get bored and move on to ranting about something else.

The sun drifts lower toward the skyline, filling the streets with the buildings' long shadows. Nobody else is up here but a couple of pigeons, trotting around and clucking. Jon keeps meaning to bring his sandwich crusts up here and treat them, but he's been so busy, and...

...and the pigeons scatter, as a huge winged shape blots out the sun over them before landing on the handrail.

Jon gapes.

It's a bald eagle. An actual, no-fooling, right-off-the-coinage bald eagle. And when it claw-walks closer to him and sticks out one foot, Jon realizes it has a message taped to its leg.

"F-for me?" he says stupidly.

"Scrawk," says the eagle, and hops closer.

Jon unties the letter, keeping an eye on the bird's wicked-looking beak all the while, and unrolls the paper to reveal several lines in a gaudy, over-serifed font:

_John Stewart,_

_Thank you for the assist with E. O. last week. I could have handled it alone, obviously, but it would have taken longer._

_I was thinking recently that it would be nice to have a helper person in the mainstream media business. Not like the kind where you promise to write good things about me, because it would be unethical to coordinate with you in that way. But the kind where you tip me off about criminal-type things being planned, and I tip you off when a newsworthy and spectacular confrontation is about to go down, and maybe you also throw food on supervillains on an as-needed basis._

_So, do you want to be my unofficial sidekick? You wouldn't have to wear spandex or anything. Unless you wanted to._

_Check yes or no:_

_YES □ NO ▫_

_~The Eagle_

_(The superhero Eagle, not the eagle carrying this. He can't write.)_

"And, uh, I guess I tie this back on with the answer?" asks Jon.

The bird cocks its head at him as if he's a particularly stupid pigeon. "Wark."

"Okay, okay," says Jon, and fumbles in his jacket pocket for a ballpoint.


	3. Rogues' Gallery (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for one of the Eagle's villains from kribban: "Something about the people who want to take away all your guns. Maybe they're gnomes?" Fills the "hostages" square for my [round 4 hc_bingo card](http://ptahrrific.dreamwidth.org/140680.html).

"I can't see how this story is going to need photos," says Jon. The interview he has lined up is a one-reporter job, but apparently Stephen also takes pictures, so he's accompanying Jon anyway. "It's a theft case. What are we going to do, get shots of all the places the items aren't?"

"You obviously don't understand photojournalism," sniffs Stephen, babying his camera. They're crammed in the back of a dingy cab that screeches down the road at half again the speed limit, and Stephen cuddles the gadget every time the car bounces. "The general public today doesn't have the attention span to _read_ things. Especially not things that make them _think_ , like all the stuff you write. The only hope you have of anybody taking a look at the words in your article is if they catch some by accident on the way to checking out the illustration."

"Maybe I like to have more faith in the American public than that," grumbles Jon.

"Maybe you're just not in touch with what's going on in the world," says Stephen. "Speaking of which...what's this story about, anyway?"

Jon sighs, but decides to answer. If Stephen's right, and nobody's going to read this when he writes it up, at least he'll have gotten the word out to someone. "A string of firearms have gone missing. I just got back from talking to the cops, and they have no evidence, no leads, no suspects. The only thing linking the case is that the victims all had what looked like a chunk of yard dug up. We're going to interview one of the—"

"Driver!" shouts Stephen, cutting Jon off. "Change of plans! Now we're going to—"

He rattles off an address, and Jon doesn't get a chance to protest before the cab executes a sharp U-turn that nearly knocks the wind out of him.

"What are you doing?" he demands, when he's got his breath back. "We've got a story to cover!"

Stephen doesn't look so good. His face has gone all pale and peaky. "First I have to make sure I'm not _part_ of the story!" he cries. "Jon, have you been listening to yourself? _They're trying to take away our guns!_ "

"You have a gun," realizes Jon. Of course his aggressive, dangerously impulsive co-worker would have picked up a gun at some point. "Okay, but come on, that's no reason to panic. That address, that's your place, right? Because it's nowhere near any of the thefts. And we don't even know yet if there's a pattern, let alone if you fit it...."

"You don't understand," moans Stephen, clinging desperately to Jon's arm. "I know who's behind this, Jon! It's a bunch of vile little gnomes the Eagle's tangled with before. And if they've gotten ballsy enough to start working in the Eagle's own city, there's nothing to stop them from going all the way and taking my Sweetness!"

 

†

 

Stephen nearly has a fit when he sees a basketball-sized mess of upturned soil in the lawn in front of his building. Jon follows him inside, muttering a description of the scene into his recorder, pausing to ask, "Wait, so are these literally gnomes we're talking about?"

However hysterical he might be getting, Stephen is still composed enough to snap, "Yes! Haven't you gotten caught up on the Eagle's back adventures yet?"

"It's on my to-do list!" says Jon. For someone who thinks the Eagle is a menace to society, Stephen sure does seem insistent that people know about him.

They race down the halls, Stephen jams his key in the door, and they both stumble into a room full of overturned furniture. A painting with a cracked frame leans against one of the chairs; in the blank spot on the plaster above it, the door of a wall safe hangs open.

Stephen dashes over, pulls a slip of paper out of the otherwise-empty chamber, and falls to his knees. The camera bumps against his stomach, hanging forgotten around his neck. "Sweetness...."

"Can you read it?" asks Jon quietly, looking over his shoulder. The note is the first new piece of evidence, but it's covered in a scratchy, runelike script that Jon can't make heads or tails of.

"It's gnomish," sniffles Stephen. "Says if we ever want to see our beloved guns again, we need to bring them even _more_ guns! Either way, they're going to massacre poor innocent firearms!"

"I'm, uh, sorry," says Jon, trying to be sympathetic enough to soothe his co-worker's obvious distress. "Listen, let's report this to the police, and I'm sure they'll put all the pieces together and get your, um, your Sweetness back. And if they don't...well, I know you don't like to admit this, but I bet the Eagle will."

 

†

 

Jon's back at the office writing when he gets the call. " _Daily_ home office, Jon Stewart speaking."

"Jon!" says the bright voice of the Eagle. "We're about twenty minutes from a big underground cops-versus-gnomes shootout! Want to come watch?"

"First tell me one thing," says Jon. "How many firearms are going to be involved?"

"Oh, plenty," the Eagle assures him. "Of course the evil gnomes have all the guns they've taken, and we're bringing all the guns they demanded to fake out that we're paying the ransom, and of course the police are loaded up with enough ammo that they will definitely bring these suckers down."

Yeah, Jon was afraid of that. "Then it sounds like you'll have to do plenty of shielding the good guys as-is, without throwing a civilian with no combat training into the mix."

The Eagle sighs. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure. Best of luck to you, though. Oh, and one more thing! Is Stephen Colbert there?"

"What?" stammers the Eagle. "No. I mean, he might be. I mean...that's your fellow reporter, right? The handsome and talented one? What would he be doing here?"

"One of his guns got taken," explains Jon. "He seemed pretty emotionally involved, so I thought he might want to be there for the...um, the rescue. On the other hand...between you and me, he's kind of a coward, so it would make sense if he kept his distance."

"I'm sure he's very brave, and only runs from danger when he has a very good reason!" says the Eagle. "Like, for example, I don't see him around here at all. But there's probably a reason for it!"

Jon can't resist teasing him. "Do you have a new favorite reporter? Should I be jealous?"

"Jon, if you're going to be ridiculous, I'm going to hang up."

"Okay, okay. Just wanted to say, if he does turn up, keep an eye on him for me, okay? He'll be useless in a fight, and I really don't want him to get hurt."

The Eagle takes a long moment to digest this. "If your friend comes by," he says at last, "I will do everything I can to make sure he comes out in one piece. One very attractive piece."


	4. Rogues' Gallery (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Villain prompted by politicette: "Satanic Feminazi Baby-Killers o b v i o u s l y." Fills the "making deals with demons" square for my [round 4 hc_bingo card.](http://ptahrrific.dreamwidth.org/140680.html)

There are times Jon regrets being the Eagle's official tipoff guy.

He's been summoned down to the docks in the middle of the night, told there's a showdown in the making. So far, so good. But when they first sneak into the boarded-up warehouse, Jon does a double-take, then whispers, "Hey, I think this mission might not be for me."

"Where's your sense of adventure?" hisses the Eagle. His sidekick, the actual eagle known as Junior, fluffs its feathers in indignant agreement from its perch on the costumed crimefighter's shoulder. "Your fearlessness in the face of danger?"

"I'm up for adventure!" protests Jon. "I'm even okay with a little danger! But this?" He nods to one of the swastika-emblazoned tapestries that are tacked up on all the walls. "This is really not my scene!"

"Oh, that," says the Eagle, voice low but dismissive. "Don't worry, Jon, they're not _your_ kind of Nazi."

Before Jon can protest, they both hear the chanting.

They're coming up on a closed door that has light flickering behind it, orange and uneven, from a fire, or maybe a lot of candles. It's only the door to a catwalk that runs over the main body of the warehouse, but there's still a lone figure standing sentry, muscular with cargo pants and buzzed-short hair. It takes Jon a couple of seconds to pick out that she's a woman. The Eagle hunches his shoulders like a cat about to pounce, then waves his hand in a loose arc, and a forcefield pops into being around her.

She whips around, raising her fists in a boxing stance, and urgently scans the hall. In the dim light Jon realizes her mouth is moving, but he can't hear a word. "Soundproof?" he whispers.

"One of my favorite types to cast," murmurs the Eagle proudly. "Stay put while I tie her up."

He and Junior leap forward, feathers fluttering in the shadows, and a second field appears around all three of them. "Soundproof field number two, maybe 20 feet in diameter," says Jon softly, holding the mic right up against his lips. "Never seen him cast one that big before...okay, there we go, he's already shrinking it as he approaches. And he's airborne! She's fast — and I'm getting the sense he doesn't actually know anything about boxing — wait, Junior's dropped something on her — and she's in her own field again! Let go of the Eagle to grab for Junior. Bad move."

Sure enough, a minute later the sentry has keeled over, knocked out by whatever chemical Junior let loose to be sealed with her in an airtight bubble. The Eagle clambers to his feet, panting, and straightens his cowl before beckoning Jon forward.

"She called me a male chauvinist pig," he pouts, as he undoes the sentry's belt and uses it to lash her hands to an exposed pipe. "That's completely unfair! I was beating her up for reasons that had _nothing_ to do with her gender."

Normally Jon would wince at that, but he kind of figures that if you're wearing a swastika on your chest, that's asking for it. "Let's just get inside."

The Eagle throws a couple of mini-forcefields up around the hinges and doorknob, and the door is whisper-silent as he pushes it open.

On the floor of the warehouse below them, ringed by boxes and crates with more Nazi banners tacked up everywhere, a dozen more women are kneeling in a circle. They're the ones chanting, surrounded by candles. Someone's drawn an elaborate chalk sigil on the floor, full of symbols and script that Jon doesn't recognize, though he doesn't think they look good.

And in the very center of the circle....

All of a sudden the Eagle shoves him backward, casting a forcefield around them both. "Change of plans!" he says, hushed, urgent. "I don't get paid enough to deal with something like this."

A wave of cold horror rushes over Jon. "You can't be serious," he hisses. "There was an infant down there! Probably one of the missing ones!"

"I am totally serious! And if you understood what they're about to summon—"

"I don't care what they're summoning!" barks Jon. "You're supposed to be a hero! Act like one!"

The Eagle goes statue-still.

Jon catches his breath and taps the pearly forcefield where it curves up over his head. "You did make this one soundproof, right?"

The costumed hero's hands tense into furious claws, but he keeps his temper, just barely. "If you don't want to make this any worse, stay here and shut up!" he snaps. The forcefield flickers off and on, leaving Jon outside of it, as he and Junior leap forward.

No time to stop and record narration now. Jon plasters himself against a wall draped in shadow and holds his breath. There's shouting from below, screams, machine-gun fire, an eagle's screech.

Then the Eagle crashes back through the doorway, his current forcefield banging against the frame. Metallic, heavy creaks and groans echo in his wake. "Jon! Are you still here?"

"Right here!"

"Great! Hold this!" He shoves the infant into Jon's arms — dark face framed by fine curls and a lemon-yellow onesie, eyes glazed, terrifyingly still — Jon doesn't have time to think before there's the searing pain of Junior landing on his shoulder, claws digging through his un-padded T-shirt — "Hold on to your seats!" cries the Eagle, a double layer of forcefields popping into existence around them, and Jon barely has a chance to drop into a sitting position on the innermost field before the whole group is crashing out the nearest window, shards of glass raining down around them.

Jon's heart is jumping out of his ribs, lungs seized so tight he couldn't breathe if he wanted to. The double forcefield soars over the docks, drops through the air, skims across the surface of the harbor in a crashing wave —

— and that's when the warehouse explodes in a titanic ball of fire.

The Eagle steers them around behind the hulk of an old World War II battleship that's now used for educational tours. Past its shadow on either side Jon can see the flames reflected on the waves, with the occasional splash from a falling piece of debris.

"Wh-what the hell was that?" pants Jon with his first breath.

"Hell," says the Eagle, like he's correcting Jon's pronunciation.

"That's what I said."

The feathered crusader slowly draws them upward, seawater dripping from the bottom of the outer forcefield as they rise. He comes to a shaky landing on the deck of the battleship, where both bubbles pop at once and he sits down heavily against a plaque describing the role of code breakers in winning the war.

"No," he intones, "I mean, it was Hell. Capital-H." He points at the flames. "That's what happens when you have the gall to summon Satan without a proper sacrifice waiting."

Jon turns frightened eyes on the infant in his arms. In the light of the high flames, he now recognizes the face from the photos they ran next to the last article on the kidnappings. "I can't tell if he's still alive," he says faintly. Breathing and pulse, if they're there, are too weak for him to feel.

The pain in his shoulder flares up again as Junior takes off, talons digging into his flesh one more time. Instead of flying over to its partner, as Jon might have expected, the bird lands in front of him and claw-walks up to his crossed legs, then rests its head against the baby's chest.

A few seconds later it raises its head, looks Jon right in the eye, and gives him a sharp nod.

"Oh, good," breathes Jon, leans back against a life preserver, and quietly passes out.


	5. Rogues' Gallery (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This episode's villain type: Militant homosexual activists who are out to turn everyone gay. Fills the "brainwashing" square for my [round 4 hc_bingo card.](http://ptahrrific.dreamwidth.org/140680.html)

Jon sticks a couple of quarters in the pay phone with fumbling fingers and dials the number of the Eagle's hotline. "Thank goodness I caught you!" he exclaims, when the familiar voice answers. "We need you in the park. There's a supervillain in purple zapping everyone with some kind of energy beam and cackling!"

"The park?" echoes the Eagle. "What are you doing in the park? There's no story to cover there today."

"I didn't come here to cover a story! I came here to feed the pigeons."

"Oh," says the Eagle. Like he's never imagined that Jon has a life outside of news. (Doesn't the caped hero have his own life outside saving people and getting merchandise deals? Jon sure hopes he does.) "Well, stay put, citizen. I'll be right over!"

Jon hangs up the phone and, even though he's not on the clock, starts creeping back toward the center of the action anyway.

The people who get zapped with the beam aren't screaming or crying, there's no electric sparking or smell of burns, but it has to be doing something dastardly, or else the violet-haired villain in the fabulous purple outfit wouldn't be laughing so evilly about it. Jon stops at a bench where a couple of people are sitting, faces flushed, breathing heavily. "How do you feel? Any pain? Do you need medical attention?"

Of the pair, the woman looks blankly at him — not blank like she's been mindwiped or anything, just blank like she can't believe this putz has the nerve to think she'd want to talk to him — and turns away in a huff. Jon might have guessed she was dating the man, but he has to be a couple of decades older — sort of an Ian McKellen type, an impression that gets unexpectedly reinforced when he rises to his feet and cups Jon's face in his hands. "You're beautiful," he murmurs, and tries to kiss Jon full on the mouth.

Jon flails. "No thank you — excuse me — you're not my type!" he babbles, scrambling out of the guy's grasp and backing down the path.

He hasn't gone more than a few steps when he spots a pair of younger men with no such inhibitions, furiously making out. Not far beyond them, a woman of around Jon's age is gazing dreamily at a slightly older lady, and, while he watches, pushes her up against a tree and grinds their hips together. Now that he knows what to look for, they're everywhere: either dazed single people wandering alone, or same-sex couples pairing up and going at it.

Above the trees, an eagle screech rings out, followed by a heroic voice: "Stop right there!"

"So, the Eagle finally arrives!" cackles the villain. He's frighteningly close, at the edge of the pond; Jon ducks behind one of the last of the trees and peeks through the branches to watch. "How do you like my new and upgraded Homomenator? 233% more effective, with 69% farther range!"

"When will you learn, Lavender Menace?" demands the Eagle. He and his sidekick are silhouetted against the blue sky, framed by a dusting of fluffy white clouds. "You will never get the numbers you need to force your agenda down the throat of America!"

"Oh, won't I?" says Lavender Menace. "What if I told you that this version...goes through forcefields!"

He aims squarely at the Eagle, and a burst of rainbow light explodes from the end of his ray gun, enveloping his target dead-on.

Jon's mind races trying to come up with a plan. Maybe he can lure the dazed Eagle down to earth and dunk him in the pond. And if cold water doesn't work...there's gotta be a physical limit to how much lust that beam can induce, right? Maybe if Jon just gets the Eagle to kiss him for a while, it'll burn itself out and he'll be back in the game. That's a sacrifice Jon is willing to make. Purely for the good of the city, of course.

But wait — the Eagle doesn't look dazed at all. He touches down, sharp as ever, and dissolves his forcefield to cast a new one keeping the Lavender Menace from fleeing.

"What? No!" shrieks the villain. "It's not possible! You should be transported by throes of homoerotic passion!" He fires again and again, some of the shots going wild, none of them making any difference to the approaching hero.

"The joke's on you, Menace!" exclaims the Eagle. "My other superpower is being 100% unshakably heterosexual!"

He's close enough to switch off the forcefield and grapple with the Lavender Menace over the gun. In the struggle, rainbow beams go off in completely random directions. One of them has passed through Jon before he has time to duck.

 

†

 

The next thing Jon's aware of is a soft, harmonious voice saying, "What is it, boy? Did you find something?"

"Scrawk!" declares the bird in the branches above him.

Jon realizes he's sitting aimlessly in the grass. How long it's been, he doesn't know. His eyes finally focus...to see that he's being approached by the most handsome, suave, desirable man he's ever seen in his life.

"Jon!" exclaims the Eagle, whose lusciousness Jon has never truly appreciated until now. "There you are! It's okay, I took the bad guy out. He won't be destroying any more marriages today. Good job doing your civic duty and calling me in!"

"Mmm," says Jon, letting his stunning rescuer help him up. "Happy to call you in any time." Wrapping his arms around the Eagle's waist, he presses their lips together.

"Mmph!" says the Eagle.

"Your confusion is really hot," Jon tells him, nuzzling his spandex-clad neck.

"With my keen intellect and eagle-eyed powers of observation," says the Eagle, wriggling in Jon's grip, "I am deducing that you may be a victim of the Homomenator ray."

"Oh, I don't know about 'victim'," purrs Jon, working his hands through the feathers that run down the Eagle's back. "Unless that's what you're into? In which case, sure, I'm a helpless citizen in distress. Someone better come rescue me."

"Junior!" wails the Eagle. "Help!"

His sidekick drops out of the sky and lands — on the hero's padded shoulder, thankfully, as Jon still has talon scars from their last adventure. He's still not going to get away from this one unscathed, though: Junior ducks forward like a pigeon going after crumbs and gives Jon a sharp nip on the ear. Jon yelps and hides his face against the Eagle's chest. "Please, beautiful, call off your bird!"

"Okay, that didn't work," says the costumed crusader. "Don't bite him again...yet. Is this temporary? Please tell me this is temporary."

"Wark."

"Is it wearing off of other people yet?"

"Scrawk."

"Great!" The Eagle cups Jon's face in gloved hands and holds it away from his. A shiver runs through Jon at the touch. "Hear that? You'll be okay in a couple of minutes. Until then, you've just got to fight it! Fight it like the sweet and tender temptation of baby carrots!"

"I know a guy who's scared of baby carrots," remarks Jon dreamily. "It isn't sexy with him, though." And he tries to hook one leg around the Eagle's waist.

They overbalance almost instantly and go toppling backward. (Junior takes off in a flap of feathers as his nice perch tips over.) Instead of hitting the park's grounds, Jon lands against the bottom of a wide, shallow forcefield, with the Eagle on top of him, pinning him down.

"Mmm, pushy," says Jon, as the forcefield skims lightly across the top of the grass. "You know, I like that in a man."

He arches his hips upward in invitation...

...and the field under him disappears, dropping him without warning into the cold water of the pond.

It's close to the edge — he plants both hands in the muddy bottom and shoves his head up through the surface — soaked through, spitting algae, hair plastered across his face. When he's coughed and wheezed and blinked the brackish water out of his eyes, he glares at the figure hovering in front of him: a dripping Eagle sitting cross-legged in a bowl-shaped half-forcefield, small holes opened around the bottom to let the water pour out.

"Are you better now?" demands the sopping hero.

"Must be!" snaps Jon, coughing some more. "You're not looking appealing at _all_ right now!"

"Well, good!" cries the Eagle. He pauses. "Wait, not even a little?"


	6. Rogues' Gallery (IV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's villain: _The sinister forces who hate religion and are out to oppress people of faith. Just because you can't see them doesn't mean they're not there!_ Fills the "poltergeist" square for my [round 4 hc_bingo card](http://ptahrrific.dreamwidth.org/140680.html).

When the first couple of hymnals start flying around, Stephen exclaims, "My notorious sensitive stomach is acting up once more!" and bolts for the doors at the back of the sanctuary.

They won't open.

In spite of himself, Jon almost feels relieved. Church reporting isn't his beat; this was supposed to be Stephen's story, and the only reason Jon came along is because Stephen can only stay on task if there's somebody around to babysit him. A metahuman attack that will probably require the Eagle to show up and defend, on the other hand...that's a story Jon can sink his teeth into.

"This way!" rings out the pastor's voice from the front. Turns out there's a door behind the pulpit, and she's holding it open, though it's rattling and shaking in a fierce effort to close on her. "Families with small children first. Two at a time, please! Walk, don't run!"

A couple of children have started wailing in fear and confusion, but the rest of the congregation is downright organized as everyone files toward the exit, parting to let families through. Stephen's the only person who doesn't listen, trying to jog to the front of the line.

Jon grabs him by the shirt as he jogs past. "Weren't you listening?" he demands, yanking Stephen back, then ducking before a flying Bible can clip him across the head. "Let the kids go! And don't panic!"

"I am not panicking!" yells Stephen. "This is a perfectly rational response! It's a poltergeist; it could be anywhere! And it's a poltergeist who clearly hates religion, so as the most devout person here, I'm going to be its primary target!"

Communion trays go whizzing over the crowd, spinning as they go, pelting everyone with bread and grape juice and tiny plastic cups. Someone starts yelling at their invisible antagonist to _be gone, demon!_ It doesn't stop one of the carved wooden crosses on the walls from shaking itself out of its fastenings and floating across the rows of pews...

...to clock Stephen across the back of the skull.

He hits the carpet, and Jon grabs the cross and wrestles it back before it can strike again. What if Stephen was on to something with this "primary target" business? He's been right about this city's supernatural events before, after all. "Stephen! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, thank you, Susan," says Stephen woozily.

The congregation is almost all out ahead of them, but a man at the back of the line turns and calls, "You boys need some help back there?"

"Yes, please!" calls Jon. The sooner he can get out of here, the sooner he can find a phone and call the Eagle...but no, he can't just leave Stephen. "Get him out of here, will you?"

The cross in his hands goes limp, and a second one rips itself off the wall...not to hit Stephen, but to get in front of their would-be rescuer and swat at him before he can get halfway down the aisle.

"Okay, never mind!" exclaims Jon, flinging his own no-longer-mobile cross aside and kneeling to help Stephen up. "I've got him!"

They stagger together toward the exit, Stephen's breath quick and shallow, Jon stumbling under the weight.

When the second cross has batted the last of the congregants as far as the door, it drops to the ground, and there's a long moment when nothing is moving that shouldn't be. Is the poltergeist bored? Tired? Gone? "Come on," urges Jon, "we're almost there, just gotta keep going before it comes—"

An eerie creaking sound fills the air.

At first, Jon can't place it. It's not a sound that was ever meant to be heard. Because these pews are huge, old-fashioned boxy things, and they were bolted to the floor with the design that they would never come up again.

The slab of wood tips and wobbles unsteadily while it's in the air, as if whatever's holding it is having some trouble balancing this kind of weight. Cushions topple from the seats when it rocks forward. A handful of programs from the day's service fall out of the slots on the back and scatter like leaves in the wind.

Then it starts moving.

The pastor's still holding the door open, her efforts now aided by the man who tried to come back and help Jon and Stephen. But standing their ground to let a solid, heavy piece of wood crash into them isn't brave, it's suicidal, and they fall back into a passage too narrow for the pew to follow. At last the door can slam shut behind them.

"Stephen, listen to me," says Jon, praying Stephen's lucid enough to take this in. "I know you're dizzy, but we have to run, okay?" He can't see any shelter. Not from this. Just have to keep ahead of the pew rocking through the air towards them. "We have to—"

"Get down!" yells Stephen, and with one hard yank drags them both to the floor, Jon on top.

The last thought Jon ever has is going to be cursing Stephen for using him as a human shield, in spite of everything.

A slow, splintering crash fills his ears...

...but there's no pain, and he's pretty sure he isn't dead.

Jon looks to one side. Half a carved and heavy pew is lying at an angle over him, one end thudded against the carpet, the other snapped and splintered overhead. Its matching half is on the other side. Fragments of wood skitter down the familiar soap-bubble dome of a forcefield holding it up.

"He's here," breathes Jon as he sits up, giddy with the too-familiar joy of unexpected not-dying. "He made it! I didn't even call him, and he made it. We're gonna be fine, Stephen." He'll shout at the man about the whole human-shield thing later. Right now he just wants to bask in the glory of his favorite hero's competence. "The Eagle's got our backs."

"Jon, please shut up," snaps the Eagle. "Not that I mind the praise, but I am trying to concentrate."

The voice is right next to him. And that's not possible. The feathered crimefighter has to be casting this from a distance, because Jon can't see him anywhere...

...until his eyes light on Stephen's hand. The shouty reporter is still flat on his back and keeps closing his eyes, but his hand is curled into a gesture Jon's seen dozens of times by now, though for all the others it's had a glove on.

"Stephen," breathes Jon. "You're...?"

"Concentrating!" yells Stephen, in the Eagle's voice. And now they're being pelted with another round of hymnals, so Jon swallows all his questions and lets the Eagle concentrate.

 

†

 

Around the time they hear the first sirens, the barrage stops.

Stephen ripples the field around them, shaking off the debris piled on top of it, and switches it off. Jon promptly takes a couple of deep breaths. Stephen had been opening holes periodically to let in fresh air, but it still got pretty stuffy in there.

"They...burn themselves out," explains Stephen in a wandering voice. "Dash themselves to pieces against the rocks of our faith...we shall not be moved, rah rah rah." He pauses. "Unless it's faking...so we take our guard down. Hope it's not faking."

Jon gets to his feet and surveys the battered sanctuary. "If anything moves, I'll let you know."

"You can't...tell anyone," adds Stephen.

"What, about the poltergeist?"

"About me," pants Stephen, short of breath. "Can't tell. Not a word. You can't."

"Wasn't going to," Jon assures him. "Nobody would believe me if I did."

A weak smile crosses the prone hero's face. "Yeah...I'm pretty good at the whole...secret-identity thing," he murmurs, closing his eyes.

Jon drops back to his knees and clasps Stephen's shoulder. "Don't fall asleep! We've gotta get you to a hospital first. The Eagle may have saved us from death-by-hymnal, but you could still have a concussion."

 

†

 

He works late filing the story, and gets home long past dinnertime, too late to cook. Jon's staring at the TV dinners piled in his freezer when there's a knock on his window.

The Eagle, now in full costume, is perched on the fire escape.

"You'll be happy to know that I am not concussed," he announces, when Jon opens the window. "The nurse said I still seemed mildly confused and had a short attention span, but she was sure that would wear off soon."

Jon has a feeling it won't, but he's tactful enough not to say so. "Good to hear. I got you a card anyway — do you want it?"

The hero makes gloved grabby-hands at him. "Gimme!"

It's just a cheap card he picked up at a convenience store on the way home, but it's illustrated with a cartoon version of the Eagle, declaring, "Get well soon, Hero!" The real Eagle's lip wobbles when Jon hands it over.

"In a way, this is a relief," he adds with forced pep. "You have no idea what a trial it is, hearing you praise me all the time at the office and not being able to take the credit."

"I don't praise you _all_ the time...."

"Do so! Sometimes it gets so bad I have to double-check the police wire just to make sure Lavender Menace hasn't broken out early."

Jon's cheeks flame. He'd been staring at the man's mouth — it's the only body part the costume doesn't cover, the only thing he can compare to his mental image of Stephen and recognize how they've been the same all along — but now it just reminds him of that time he got brain-zapped into kissing that mouth, and, wow, this is awkward.

"But that is not the reason I came over here!" declares the Eagle. It occurs to Jon that he might be blushing too, and with the cowl over his face you'd never know. "The reason I came by is...to say thank you, you know, for stuff, and...and to say, do you want to come hang out at the Eagle's Nest with me?"

"Seriously?" says Jon, stunned and flattered. There are rumors all around the city that its local superhero has a secret lair, but nobody's ever seen it. He'd be getting the biggest exclusive on the cape beat this city's ever offered.

"We can order pizza!" adds the costumed crusader, apparently thinking he has to sweeten the deal. "I'll even pay for it on the Eagle's Credit Card."

For Jon, being a newspaper guy means two things: he's insatiably curious, and he's always nearly broke. Stephen really is a hero. "I'm in."

He kicks on a pair of sandals, grabs his keys, and comes out onto the landing. The Eagle loops a steadying arm around his waist, and their forcefield for the evening shimmers into being. "I should warn you, it's pretty high up."

"Not a problem," says Jon warmly. "I trust you not to drop me."

Stephen gives him a sharp, birdlike nod, and, with the hand still holding the card, makes the gesture that lifts them into the air.

Jon leans comfortably against him, and they soar.


End file.
